Mr. Harold Spender's new novel, One Man Returns (Mills and Boon), opens with a very powerful and dramatic situation. Nothing in its way could be better than the description of the lonely Trevena family, of their vigil during the terrible storm, of the shipwreck and the sudden arrival of the two strangers, father and son, who are its only survivors. The father dies immediately without revealing his identity, and the son, slowly nursed back to health by the devoted care of Enid Trevena, resumes his life without any consciousness of the past, having forgotten even his own name. As a matter of fact he is Cyril Oswald, the lawful inheritor of Oswald Hall and great estates, which, of course, pass into the possession of the nearest villain. This is Major Harley, a gentleman of a lurid past and an infamous present, mitigated only by the fact that he has a beautiful and amiable daughter, Dorothy, who, having been educated at Roedean School, conceives herself to be qualified to run after beagles. In the natural course of things she sprains her ankle and is beloved by Rupert Sandford, the chief beagler of the novel. She then quarrels with her disgraceful parent, is adopted by Mrs. Sandford (mother to Rupert), and becomes the affianced bride of Rupert, though for a time she had been inclined to look with favour on Cyril. This young gentleman eventually recovers his estates by course of law and returns to Cornwall and Enid just in time to cut out that young lady from under the guns of Merrifield, a South African millionaire who had complicated the situation by providing Cyril with money for his law-suit. What happened to Major Harley is not stated, but I presume he must have drunk off the phial of poison which such desperate adventurers always carry concealed about their persons.
"The matrimonial career of suburban lovers," says Miss Jessie Pope in a prologue to The Tracy Tubbses (Mills and Boon), "is seldom variegated by so many curious happenings as fell to the lot of Mr. and Mrs. Tracy Tubbs;" and to this statement I can give my unqualified assent. No sooner were the T. T.'s married than they were beset by such wonderful and various misfortunes that I should like to try and "place" them. The Lion, I think, won in a canter, Aunt Julia was a bad second, and The Chafing-dish was third, while among the "also ran" were several Policemen, The Balloon, Cross-eyed Cranstone and The Motor-Bicycle. But whether the T. T.'s were nearly devoured by wild beasts or merely annoyed by aunts and chafing-dishes, they continued to embrace each other with magnificent heartiness whenever they had a moment to spare. In short, Miss Pope's high spirits never flag; and, even if you fail to be amused by all the incidents in the T. T.'s career, you will be glad to make the acquaintance—under a new aspect, for Miss Pope's talent as a maker of light verse is established—of a writer so unaffectedly cheerful and exhilarating.
"I cannot marry you or any man; I am not free," said Polly Adair to Hemingway, and the italics were her own. For my part, having been rather pointedly informed earlier in the story that the lady was understood in Zanzibar to be a widow, I began at this stage to suspect that there was something lacking in the lateness of Mr. Adair. This was a great pity, because Polly and Hemingway were obviously meant for each other, as she and he and I and Mr. Richard Harding Davis were unanimously agreed. But there the fatal obstacle was, whatever it might be. "I am not free," she repeated, and again the italics were her very own. After much to-do, it came out that what she meant was that she had a brother who oughtn't to be free; ought, if justice were done, to be picking oakum or whatever else they pick in their leisure hours way back in U.S.A. And this was the whole and the sole fatal obstacle! Hemingway took it as it came; Mr. Davis seemed quite pleased about it; but I felt that I had been wantonly deceived. Baffle me by all means, said I, but do not lie to me. Maybe I was not in a good temper at the time, for the three preceding stories were not calculated to stir the gentlest reader's sympathies. Possibly I am not in a good temper now, for the three later stories (though "The God of Coincidence" only just missed fire) were not distracting enough to deaden my sense of injury. A pity, for The Lost Road (Duckworth) has such a good cover and the name of such a good author on the back of it.
As dress parades have become quite a feature of modern life, surely the restaurant offers a rich field of advertisement for the enterprising outfitter through the medium of waiters.